Scars
by Louder Than Words 354
Summary: One shot. Mark shoulder-checked a mirror; Roger crashed a motorcycle. Mark felt a father's burn; Roger littered his arms with track marks. But only one scar belongs to both of them. T for language and mature themes.


**This fic takes place about a month pre-Rent.**

Scars

It was a quiet day that began with the New York sun bathing the loft in early light. Roger was passively sitting on the couch, playing guitar and humming along to the gentle strums, when Mark ran in holding a green sweater vest in the air. His bare torso was glaring white.

"Roger! This is bad!" Mark said, waving the vest for emphasis.

Roger squinted. "You're blinding me," he muttered.

"Shut up! I have no shirts!!"

Roger's response was a blank stare and a dissonant chord. "What, did you eat them?"

"No! They don't work! I mean…no! Dirty. Everything is DIRTY."

Roger shook his head and looked back at the guitar. "You're a dumbass…"

"YOU HAVE NO SHIRTS EITHER!!"

The songwriter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Did you go looking? None of my stuff fits you!"

Mark glared. From behind his back, he produced a burgundy button-down shirt…and stuffed it in Roger's face. "Smell it. Just SMELL it."

"Grow up! Leave me alone while you go hit puberty. I am not smelling the shirt."

But Mark was determined. "Smell the fucking shirt."

"Are you trying to chloroform me with a shirt?!"

A second later, the shirt was in Roger's face again, and there was little the songwriter could do to keep its stench from overwhelming his senses. He found himself dropping his guitar onto the couch cushions and rocking back with disgust.

"FUCK! That is not a shirt! That doesn't smell like me, that smells like rat piss!"

"Further proof we need to do laundry…. NOW!"

At this point, Roger understood Mark's look of panic. He looked down at the shirt he was wearing and imagined that it was probably his only shirt left. In fact, he'd already worn that shirt several times. Out of curiosity, he raised the collar to his neck and sniffed it.

"Shit."

--

The laundry room was an alien world. It smelled of bleach and damp human odor, a perfect combination to match the prison-cell windows and the run-down concrete walls.

Combined, Mark and Roger had just a little over one laundry basket of clothes. It was naturally Mark who was left filling the washer machine while Roger leaned against the ironing board. When the songwriter saw a green shirt that vaguely reminded him of the one he had on, he stripped the shirt from his back and threw it at Mark's head.

"Thanks. Right where I can smell it."

"Anytime," replied Roger. "You've got something on your back."

Mark looked awkwardly over his shoulder. "Where?"

"It's like on your shoulder blade…oh, wait…"

"Yeah, that's an old scar," said Mark, turning quickly back to the wash.

Roger waited a full ten seconds before opening his big mouth again. "What's it from?"

Mark straightened up again, looking back at the scar as if he could read it like a memory. "That one's from…something weird."

"That is not an acceptable answer. That's like saying I just fucked this girl and then not telling me what she looked like."

Mark closed the lid to the washer and spun around, as though Roger's language offended him. "Well, I didn't get it from fucking a girl! I got it from…shoulder-checking a window."

Roger blinked. "Was it bothering you?"

Mark bit back a response. He leaned casually against the washer, which was shaking and making sounds resembling bricks in a blender. The filmmaker motioned to Roger's left shoulder, to a spot by the base of his roommate's neck. "And how about that?"

Roger tried to look by pulling the skin on his neck forward, only to find that it greatly lacked in elasticity. "Oh, that. Fucking a girl."

"Oh god, stop there…"

"Yeah, she bit me. It was kinky."

"What part of 'stop there' did you not understand?"

Roger tilted his head, regarding Mark with interest in the dim halogen light of the laundry room. "Hey, you've got more. A lot more. I didn't notice at first, you're too white."

Mark looked down at his exposed chest. He shrugged. "I guess so."

Roger's eyes focused on a spot under Mark's left pectoral. "What's that one?"

"That one's a scar, Roger."

"No shit. What's it from?"

Mark sighed and looked at the scar apathetically. "It's a burn mark. Cigarette burn."

"But you don't smoke."

"Yeah…I didn't do it."

Roger bit his lip. Doing so didn't succeed in holding back his natural inclination to pry. Fortunately, there was enough trust here to take the conversation further; enough stories had been shared.

"Your dad?" Roger asked.

Mark nodded.

The thrashing sounds of the washer machine filled the awkward silence. Then, finally, Mark broke it by motioning lightly to Roger's folded arms. "You've got them all over your arms," said the filmmaker. "You've got me beat."

Roger unfolded his arms slowly, revealing the scars further. Every track mark brought back the memory of an injected high. "Yeah… don't remind me."

"Sorry."

"No, that's ok, I reminded you, I mean…"

Mark spasmodically raised his right arm to reveal a long scar on the underside of the forearm. "I ran into a tree!" he said proudly.

The tension was discarded, and Roger smiled. "Oh yeah? Check this one out." He lowered the right side of his jeans just past his hipbone, where a patch of red signified a hundred tiny skid mark scars. "I crashed a motorcycle. Beat that."

"I fell out of an airplane!"

"Shut up. You don't have enough money to get _in _an airplane."

Mark shrugged, beaten. At that moment, though, he was thrown forward when the washer revolted and jammed, lurching to a stop.

"Oh, shit…fuck you, washer…" Mark turned, aiming to give it a kick. The machine won—a second later, Mark was cursing more, his foot wounded. He looked up at Roger.

"Are you going to ask me how I got the scar on my foot? Kicking a fucking _washing machine." _

Roger watched the episode with a smirk on his face. At that moment, Mark leaned down to check his foot, muttering something about it being bruised and bloated.

…and a long gash was reveal going down the filmmaker's side, the raggedly healed scar of something penetrating deep into the flesh.

"No…" said Roger softly. "I want to know how you got _that._"

Mark straightened up and cupped his hand over the area, hiding it from view too late. "That's nothing."

"Don't be a fucking idiot, Mark. That's…puckered…like a stab wound."

"Now you're being an idiot, when would I have gotten stabbed?"

"I don't know…mugging…your dad…whatever."

"I didn't get stabbed."

Mark turned abruptly back to the wash, kicking it some more until it started working again, loud enough to override their conversation.

"Mark, I worked low-end bars, I know what stab wounds look like!"

"Just drop it, okay? If I say I didn't get stabbed, then I didn't get stabbed! Fuck, you always have to know everything."

This time, the awkward silence lasted longer. The two friends looked everywhere but at each other as the washer finished its chaotic cycle. When the machine stopped, Mark took the clothes out and began to load them into the dryers that lined the far wall.

Roger's automatic reaction had been to lash back at Mark; instead, strangely, he felt terrible for meddling. He walked over to where Mark stood and leaned against the wall near his roommate.

"Um…sorry, man," said Roger. "It's your business."

Mark finished stuffing a pair of boxers into the dryer and shut the door, letting the cycle start. He sighed. "Yeah, well…it's just a bad memory. It _was _a stab wound. A blade was driven two and a half inches in there, kind of at an angle. Not something you want to remember. I never got it stitched, so it healed kind of ugly."

Roger nodded. He didn't want to say anything more.

And they stayed that way, surrounded by the broken silence, as they made their way back to the loft to wait for the dryer to finish.

They went about some mundane business; Roger went back to his guitar, and Mark wandered through the loft performing aimless chores. About forty minutes later, Mark sank down next to Roger on the couch and smiled at him gently. Roger felt that they were okay again.

"Do you realize how awkward it is that we're sitting here without shirts?"

Mark barked a laugh. "Just a little…"

"Good thing neither of us have girlfriends to take this the wrong way."

"Maureen probably would've thought it was cute… or sexy… or something… and wanted to have a threesome."

"That is fucking disgusting. New topic!"

"Clothes!"

"…what?"

"The clothes are ready!"

Mark shot up, grabbing the keys and bounding to the door, all too excited to wear a shirt again.

Roger waited while his roommate went back down to the laundry room with their one laundry basket. All the while, his mind played over the vision of an unsightly scar, and he thought of Mark being the victim of some psycho with a knife.

He couldn't leave his question unspoken.

"All done."

Mark announced his entrance, coming in with a basket full of unfolded laundry. He seemed content, once again wearing his favorite striped shirt.

Roger only hesitated a second.

"Mark, can I ask who stabbed you?"

Mark paused, clearly confused by the return to the subject. He set the basket down and inhaled slowly, piecing together an explanation. He leaned against the couch and ran his fingers through his hair.

"It was a heroin addict," he said at last, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor, never once looking Roger in the eye. "He was pissed because I threw all his shit out."

Roger wished he had never asked.

Shards of a knife blade pierced him, shards of a past he couldn't quite recall. Not being able to accurately remember the monster he had become was the worst part.

Mark _was _looking at Roger now; his stare was locked as he tried to figure out the songwriter's reaction. He watched the emotions play across Roger's face while the emotions in his own expression never wavered.

Roger finally looked up. But he didn't look to Mark's face…he looked at the scar.

"I did that?" he whispered.

As a response, Mark looked down into the laundry basket and pulled out a crinkled, long-sleeved shirt of Roger's. He tossed it at the songwriter.

Roger caught the shirt and looked back at Mark. The filmmaker wore a small smile, the kind you wear when forgiving.

"Cover up those track marks," said Mark. "They're just scars."

Roger put on the shirt as Mark walked away. He returned the smile to the empty air, even though it didn't quite reach his eyes.


End file.
